CHAPTER 10
WHERE'S DAD?
10:00 Sea Cliff
The Sea Cliff neighborhood was neatly tucked between the Presidio and Land's End Park. Max gave directions, leading Mark through a maze of streets after he'd turned off Geary at the Holy Virgin Cathedral. Sea Cliff Avenue held gorgeous views of the Pacific and the famous China and Baker beaches. Houses in a multitude of architectural styles stood close together, and unlike some neighborhoods where mailboxes were emblazoned on the roadside with the resident's name and the house number, most of Sea Cliff's mailboxes were anonymous locked boxes hiding behind locked gates or walls. A discrete slot in the wall was the only way to deliver mail without an appointment. Polite signs in the grass warned that premises were electronically monitored.
"I have a feeling if people saw me here, alone, they'd be calling the police to escort me out "prone toe," Mark said, drawing out the word.
Mark's comment flew over Max's head. Ed quietly eye rolled, shaking his head, but knew what his friend meant.
"Most of people are pretty liberal around here, but there's tons of money."
Max pointed to a house that had a guardhouse at the gate. "Mr. Soros lives here."
Sticking out his finger at another house. "Linda Ronstadt's house is there. Before she got sick, she'd have concerts in her backyard and sing with her friends. She was a great cook, too."
He pointed at a large modernistic house. "This belongs to Jack Dorsey. He created Twitter and helped dad and me set up my first system."
The van continued down the street.
Max jerked a finger at a gate landscaped with large hedges on each side. "Pull in that driveway on the right." The boy punched in a code on his phone; the gate shuddered for a moment, then opened. The van pulled in, parking close to the house. The gate slid shut behind them, hiding them from the curious eyes of neighbors.
Max ran up to the door with Ed close behind him. Brown saw that the doorframe was cracked, the door slightly ajar. The boy started to push in on the door. Ed flung out an arm to stop him.
"Max," his voice was guarded. "Someone's been here. Don't touch the door." Ed pulled his gun out of his holster, motioning to Mark, then he
pushed open the door. "Police!" he announced as he entered.
"Dad?! Dad! It's Max. I'm home!" the boy cried out. He started to run through the house.
"Max!" Mark shouted, "Don't touch anything."
He walked into the living room after the boy. The room had been destroyed. Cushions were slashed. Paintings were sprawled about the floor, slashed. Couches and tables flipped. Mark made a mental note that they were dealing with professionals.
Ed and Mark took neoprene gloves from their jacket pockets, carefully pulling them on. Mark handed a pair to Max.
"Put them on, and don't take them off for any reason until we're done. Assume everything's been handled by someone that isn't us or your dad." Mark said.
Ed had his cell phone out and was talking to someone from Forensics. "Yeah, how soon can you get here? Ok, when you get to Sea Cliff Avenue, You need to call so we can have the gate open for you." He clicked off.
"I'm going to get the camera. You keep Max from doing a walkabout."
Mark nodded.
Max looked out a large set of French doors. The landscaped view gave a hint of the Pacific Ocean.
"My dad. Where is he?"
Mark understood the boy's concern. "I don't know Max, but we'll find him." He put a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder."
Ed came back in. He handed the camera to Max.
"We're in luck. There's
three floors. We each take one. Max, you take the basement. Mark, this floor, and I'll take the upstairs. Take pictures of everything, including the contents of the cupboards and medicine chests."
Ed deliberately did not want Max to take pictures upstairs. He could pack a bag under supervision later, but he wasn't going anywhere near his computers for now.
Twenty minutes later, they met in the living room. Mark took the camera from Max.
Ed and Max went back upstairs. They entered his father's office first. Ed held out an evidence bag.
"Flash drives, memory cards, anything that might hold data, put it in the bag."
Max complied, noticing that his dad's desktop had been taken.
"Did your dad have any tablets, laptops, or cell phones? Check everywhere, including the trash."
Max found his dad's cell phone hidden in the trash can but little else. His dad's laptops were probably at his lab.
They went back to Max's room. Ed found Max's backpack, opened it, and tossed the bag and phone in it.
"Same thing. This time, I want all your electronics and put your homework in here as well. You've got finals coming, don't you?
"I've got AP calc and chem finals next week."
"Get the stuff you need and a few days' worth of clothes." Ed opened the closet and found an overnight bag. Max put his toiletries and clothes into it.
"What did they take? Did they take your laptop, your tablet?
"They got my desktop and iPad, but unless they knew about this." He knelt at his desk and pushed a panel aside. He came up with his laptop a moment later.
"I kept my iPad on the desk. Didn't keep anything important on it."
"How come you kept your laptop hidden?"
"Dad didn't know I hacked. When I hacked you guys, I used my desktop and made sure nothing from that hack was left on the desktop. I kept it all on the laptop with a completely different IP."
It made sense to Ed.
"Do you think," he began to say.
He didn't get a chance to finish his thought as he was interrupted. A man stood in the doorway.
"Sergeant Bossard, Crime Scene."
Ed extended a hand. "Ed Brown, Special Investigations. This is..."
"Is this punk who shut down the computers the other day? I'll be happy to take him off your hands."
Ed sensed that this could go south quickly. "This is Maddox Morgan. He admitted to us that he was the hacker. We brought him home to be under his dad's supervision, but when we got here, there was no one home, so as of right now, he's in Chief Ironside's custody. We found that the place had been trashed, and his dad was missing, so we contacted you. I watched him pack some things: his homework, clothes, and allergy meds. We'll be going now." Ed guided the boy out of his room.
"You got any idea of who trashed the house?"
"Not really."
"I'm going to need an inventory sheet of everything he took with him, including the backpack and bag, with pictures. Just to make my boss happy."
"No problem. You'll have it tomorrow." Before leaving, Ed gave Broussard the address and entrance codes to Patrick Morgan's lab."
Max understood why he dumped his books in the bag.
"Ed," Mark's urgent voice came from downstairs. "You ready? The Chief is on the line. He's unhappy we're still here."
It was a code phrase: 'Get out of there, now.'
"Coming, man. Just ran into a little obstacle."
He turned to face Max.
"Got everything?"
"Almost. I forgot my English journals. I have to turn all of these in next week."
Max went to the bookcase, grabbed several extra large Moleskine notebooks, and put them into the backpack. "All set."
"Good to meet you, Sergeant," Ed said. They went downstairs to the van, leaving Forensics to do their work.
Returning to the city, they stopped at a small restaurant to feed Max.
"Is your work always that scary?" he asked.
"Sometimes. Those guys are people we work with. More bark and growl to them than bite. I don't blame them; they want to do their job without a fuss. We were a fuss to them. Then there are the others, ordinary folks. They have guns; sometimes better guns than we have." Mark said. "They're not afraid to use them."
Max took a bite of his second double cheeseburger. After he'd chewed, he looked at Ed.
"You know those notebooks I took for my English test?"
"Yeah."
"Is there someone in the department you really trust who reads code?"
"Why?" Ed thinking immediately of Rick Trombley.
"My notebooks are full of code. I didn't want to leave it on the computer, so I put it in the notebooks. No one reads cursive anymore. I've got a bunch of discs in my calculus book too. The textbook is online, so I used the book as a safe place for my programs. After getting threats from Apostle, I coded a new program to keep him out of banks. He's not an American. His domain says r o. That's..."
"Romania," Mark and Ed said in unison, knowing exactly who had those accounts.
"We gotta get to Fran now," Mark said.
The three dumped their trash in the bins and drove towards the Hennessey Galleries.
10:45 a.m. Hennessey Gallery
The Hennessey Gallery was located in a part of the city known as The Dogpatch. It hugged the corner of Tubbs St and Tennessee St. Looking at it from the outside; it was a large white stucco cube trimmed in black with a reinforced window capable of withstanding high winds and gunshots. The entrance door was a thick piece of teak that required a code to unlock it and an appointment to enter. Inside, it was airy and open, with Scandinavian-inspired white walls, a teak ceiling, and wood trim, with art strategically arranged about. In the back were a series of small cubicles that served as offices for the small staff. The basement was a climate-controlled conservation and storage area. It was a small but well-established gallery, well-known among San Francisco's elite. Its hours of operation reflected the lives of its clientele. It opened at noon and closed at ten p.m.
Cara Muldoon was one of those afforded a cubicle. She had worked her way up during the past year from the floor to the assistant manager. Cara was a dream employee, arriving early, staying late, and establishing strong client relationships. Above all, her knowledge of painting and restoration made her stand out. She had helped some of San Francisco's wealthiest citizens establish and safeguard their collections. Cara Muldoon, however, didn't exist. The petite woman with dark hair, direct blue eyes, and generous smile was a San Francisco cop named Fran Belding, on loan to the FBI.
Belding entered the small kitchenette and turned on the cold water tap, filling the coffee pot. She took coffee and a filter from the cupboard, measuring it out into the filter. She poured water into the coffee maker's reservoir and placed the filter in the drawer of the coffee maker. Turning it on, she waited for it to drip through.
"Good Morning, Cara."
Startled, she turned directly into Thomas Hastings, the man she'd been seeing since her third week at the gallery. She knew him also as Rezko Lenard, the man the FBI had recruited her to track. A short huff of air escaped her. She realized she needed to stay in character.
"Tommy, h-how did you get in?"
"The door hadn't shut all the way," he kissed the heel of her hand.
Fran Belding knew exactly how he'd gotten in. She remembered firmly shutting the door and resetting the lock. He'd overridden the front door code. She was shaken for a moment, then regained her composure. Fran began looking for a weapon to use if needed. Her purse with her gun in the center pocket was too far and complicated to get to if she needed it. She sidled away from him, finding herself in front of the silverware drawer. Sliding her right hand back, Fran quietly cracked the drawer open. If she had to, she knew there were weapons she could use in it. She smiled at him.
"Tommy, this is a most pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?"
"There's a painting I want to purchase."
"Which one?" Fran replied, knowing his taste ran eclectic.
"Andrew showed it to me the other day. You weren't in. It's a..."
"An Impressionist. Andrew told me yesterday you were interested in it. He'll be pleased you're buying it. It's in the basement. I'll go downstairs, get it, and wrap it up for you."
"Oh, no bother, let's go together, Cara. Confidentially, I've always wanted to see the sanctum sanctorum."
He took her by the arm and walked to the basement door. Fran typed in the lock code, opening it. She reached for the light switch when she felt something heavy strike the middle of her back. Taken off balance, she fell down the steps, landing face down on the cement floor. He watched the woman he knew as Cara Muldoon, fight the obvious pain from the fall, trying to get up. He put his foot squarely on her back, pushing it down firmly, hearing the air escape her lungs. Fran refused to make a sound.
Rezko stepped over her, surveying the room. He selected several paintings and placed them on the staircase. Then he looked down at the woman he'd been seeing for the last eight months.
"Sorry, m'love. It's time for us to break up. It's been fun, but sadly, you're a liability now." He turned to go up the stairs and suddenly found himself on the floor. He had been overconfident, assuming he'd overpowered her. She used a soccer slide tackle to bring him down. She had found her footing. She was slightly unsteady but on her feet and angry.
Lenard picked himself up and made for the steps and his paintings. Fran found the energy to hurl herself on his back, looping her legs around his chest, her arm around his throat, her free hand pounding his back, hoping to force him to fall. The Romanian staggered but didn't.
Lenard bent his knees sharply, causing Fran to roll over him, crashing to the floor; she lay stunned for a moment. She was hurt but made an attempt to rise. He grabbed a fistful of brown hair, twisted it hard, and pulled her up by it.
Other than tightly pressed lips and shining eyes, Fran Belding gave no indication of the pain she felt. She ached everywhere and wanted to burst into tears but wouldn't give this man the pleasure of seeing them.
He held her hair securely in his hand, angered by her lack of response. Repeatedly he slapped her face as his voice escalated with each sentence.
"Your name is not Cara Muldoon. You're not an art dealer. Your name is Fran Belding. You are an undercover cop, a very good one. You had me convinced for a long while. You can thank Jimmy Chin for his help in discovering the truth. I should kill you, but consider my not doing that as payment for the fine paintings I'm adding to my collection and for the good times we had."
Fran glared at him, knowing this might be her last moment. "Your name -is Lenard- Rezko- Lenard. You're a spy. You're going down."
"Bitch." He forcefully pushed her into a basement wall. There was a surprised look on Fran's face as she hit the cement, then she slumped to the floor, eyes closed. Lenard walked over to her and stuck a small folder under her.
"A present from Jimmy for you, love." He said before collecting the paintings and walking up the stairs and out of the building.
Fran stayed like that for a while, forcing herself to stay awake, waiting for him to leave. Then she grabbed the document folder in one hand and slowly began to move. It hurt to breathe, to open her eyes, to move. Everything hurt. She shifted her weight, forcing herself into a table on her hands and knees. Fran held that position for a time, trying to get her body to settle down. Slowly, she attempted to crawl towards the staircase. Left side, right side, stop. She made it through one round and started a second. The room began to wobble and shimmer, and the ceiling light dimmed as she collapsed into unconsciousness.
Ed Brown drove like a madman in San Francisco's crowded streets. Several citizens noted his driving skills by scoring with their middle fingers. Mark was on the car phone. Max sat in the backseat, terrified.
When Mark finished his calls, a patrol car was dispatched to Fran's and Eve's apartments, and another one would meet them at the Hennessey.
Ed was turning into the parking lot when Eve called. There was a sigh of relief knowing that she was ok and in the office. Fran, however, had not responded to any attempt to contact her. The cop sent to her apartment reported no one was there. There was one car in the Hennessey lot.
"Fran still drives a Mustang, doesn't she?" Mark asked.
"Think so. She loves muscle cars."
Ed parked the car next to the Ford, and the two men got out.
Max heard the snap of the door locks. "You do not leave this car for any reason. I will personally throw your butt in a cell. Got me?" The voice was ice cold.
Max knew Ed wasn't just asking a question. He was ordering him. He wasn't going to disobey him. He was too frightened. He made himself even smaller in the backseat.
The officers found the front door cracked open. The main floor was unoccupied.
"She must be downstairs," Mark said.
They headed to the basement only to be stopped by another closed passcoded door.
"Fran! It's Ed and Mark! Unlock the door!" Ed called out, rattling the handle.
There was no answer.
"Oh, the hell with it." He unholstered his weapon and shot the lock, kicking open the door for good measure.
They found her where she'd collapsed, just a few inches away from the wall.
Mark hit the speed dial on the phone for emergency services.
Ed knelt next to his former partner. Gently, he rolled her over. He tucked his arm under her head, looking for something to clean her face. Mark ran back upstairs, returning with a towel, a bottle of water, and a small first aid kit.
Ed soaked the towel.
"Ed," Fran's voice was weak but had an undertone of urgency.
He dabbed at the obvious facial wounds.
"Fran, who did this?"
"Lenard." Her head lolled into his elbow; her blue eyes were slits. Already, the swelling was beginning to force them to close.
"He- got to Jimmy." she gasped then was quiet.
Ed gently eased her into a prone position. He folded his jacket, placing it under her head. He saw a small black folder in her hand. He carefully picked it up with the tweezers he kept in a leatherette pouch and propped it open. He stared into the serious face of Detective Sergeant James Chin. He slipped it into a baggie.
He joined Mark at the stairwell.
"EMS is on the way, so's Crime Scene."
"She said he got to Jimmy," Ed said tersely.
"Jimmy, who?"
"Chin, Homeland Security. Her handler most likely," he showed Mark his find. "Go upstairs and see what she might have left around her desk, will you?"
I want to put my hands on that guy, Mark thought as he checked Fran's cubicle, just two minutes alone with him. He pulled on a pair of gloves.
He saw Fran's purse casually lying open on her L shaped desk, just like she did when she was in their office. He'd rarely gone undercover for the Chief. He didn't think he could have kept it up as long as she had. Eight months, she said. She had guts; he'd give her that much. Mark used his cell phone to take pictures of the exterior of the cubicle. Her cell phone was in her purse. He opened her desk's drawers. There was an appointment book, a calendar, and some SIM cards. He scooped them up, dumping them and her purse in an extra-large tote bag she had next to her desk. Opening the stationary drawer, he found a few more things. He stopped. There was something taped to the side of the drawer. He took it off, another SIM card. Sanger felt more carefully, finding one more, taped the same way. That was it. Her tablet and laptop were inside the bag. Lenard had chosen not to check her workspace. He checked the rest of the desk. Nothing. Mark took all her other personal items with him. Crime Scene was just going to have to deal with it. Fran Belding was family.
From the back seat, Max watched the scene unfold. More cop cars came, the forensics van and an ambulance. Looking into the sideview mirror, Max saw a silver Mercedes parked on Tennessee Street, observing the action. He scrunched down in his seat to avoid being seen. The driver's side was opened, and Max saw a camera snapping pictures of everything. He assumed the photographer got Ed's license plate as well. He pointed his phone at the car and took a couple of photos.
He saw the EMS team next. They took a gurney and medical cases into the building. They came out twenty minutes later, the gurney now carrying poles holding saline bags and the folded blue blankets wrapped securely around a human form. They carefully loaded their gurney into the back and left, sirens wailing. The Mercedes didn't move from its parking spot. Still taking pictures, Max thought, trying to be casual, just an onlooker, drawn to see what all the fuss was about.
Max texted Mark.
'Silver Merc SL on TN taking pictures of everything. Prob ur lic plate. doesn't know I'm in the car.'
Mark showed the text to Ed.
"Time to leave."
Ed nodded. They raced up the stairs to the door, then walked to the car, Mark putting Fran's bag in the back seat.
Mark noted they'd been followed by the silver Mercedes to the parking garage, where it disappeared after they parked in the emergency vehicle zone. The three met Ironside and Eve in the ER waiting room of Leland Stanford University Hospital. They brought in Max's homework bag and Fran's oversized bag.
The Chief had commandeered a small consulting room, "What do we know?" Ironside growled.
"She came into work, started her normal routine, and Lenard surprised her, is my guess," Mark said. "Forced her downstairs, where he assaulted her."
"How'd he get in?"
"Overrode the lock is my guess. Fran wouldn't have willingly let him in," Ed said.
"Are you certain it was Lenard who did this?" Eve asked.
"Fran was conscious long enough to ID him," Ed replied.
"She said he got to Jimmy," Ironside said.
"Yeah. Lenard stuck Jimmy Chin's shield in her hand. Letting us know he knows HS is on to him."
"Max, tell me about the car you saw, the one taking pictures."
Max described the car and the camera taking pictures.
"Probably won't be driving that one again if you both made him. Do you know if he saw you?" the Chief asked.
"No sir, I don't."
"Eve, you and Max go back to the office. Get an Uber and leave by another entrance. I want you to go through everything in those bags. Call Rick Trombly. Remind him he's been reassigned. I'll need him to go through the all data you have."
"Come on, Max," Eve said. "Let's get out of here."
He wheeled around to face Mark and Ed.
"You two go see Carl Reese. Again, leave by another entrance in another vehicle. I want Lenard to believe everybody's still here. Carl needs to know what's happened and to make sure Sgt Chin is safe."
The men nodded and left.
Rezko Lenard sipped his double espresso slowly in a cafe near the hospital. The woman he'd known as Cara had hurt him. Even injured, Fran Belding was stronger than he thought. He was going to be black and blue tomorrow for certain. He went through the pictures on his Nikon. Finding the picture of the car's rear license plate, he assumed it was San Francisco PD plainclothes. He was unsure that he'd been noticed. They'd been a bit preoccupied by what they'd found in the gallery. He looked at the images of Mark and Ed he'd taken. One intrigued him. The man in the windbreaker appeared to be talking to someone in the vehicle's backseat. The kid. It had to be. He'd missed his moment. He looked closer at a photo of the backseat. Something was poked up. Not a person, a thing. He enlarged it. It was a small oblong, was it a phone? What pictures had they gotten of him? He laid out his plan. Tonight he'd visit the hospital and take care of Fran Belding. He disliked killing. This time it had to be done. He had no idea of what she knew. They'd known each other for eight months. He granted she was good at her job. She was a liability, so she had to die. It just took a "hospital accident," and it would be over. Then he'd be free to focus on Patrick Morgan and his son.
First, he needed to buy a new car.
Mark Sanger drove to Police Headquarters. Ed fumed all the way. He was like that when people close to him were hurt. Mark had been his friend long enough to know his mood and to give him space.
Homeland Security took up most of the third floor. The receptionist was singularly unhelpful to them. Ed was ready to lose it when he saw Carl Reese.
"Carl!" He shouted.
Reese looked at him, hung up the phone, shook his head affirmatively, and waved his hand, ushering them in.
Reese's office was a far cry from his old office in the detective's room. This office was light, airy, and spacious. Reese hadn't changed. He was still rumpled, looking like he hadn't slept in a week. His face still showed a heavy beard, his sleeves were rolled up, his collar was open, and his tie was loose. His jacket was probably crumpled in a chair. There was one change. He was now Commander Reese of Homeland Security. He ordered coffee.
"You want to know about Fran, what she did for us," Reese said after coffee arrived. "Conrad," he bellowed as a uniform passed by. "Has Chin checked in yet?"
"No, sir."
"Get a car over there. Drag his ass in now. If he's not there, I want to know immediately."
"Yessir."
"Damn, It makes me sick to know what happened. She was so close to nailing this guy Lenard for us."
The story Reese told them was the same as the one Fran gave earlier. Lenard worked for SRI and looked to be ready to exit the country. He made extra money from hacking, selling his programs, and laundering funds through artwork. Andrew Mitchell, owner of the gallery, was the link. Fran's job was to see how much money flowed illegally through the gallery and into Mitchell's and Lenard's pockets.
Reese's phone rang, "Reese."
Carl listened intently for a time and then hung up.
"They found Jim Chin. He'll be here in fifteen minutes. One of you want to join me?"
Twenty minutes later, Jim Chin was in interview room four. Carl Reese was on the opposite side of the table, sitting next to Mark Sanger. Ed paced outside, occasionally staring at them through the one-way glass. The partners had agreed that Ed was too likely to explode at Chin. They didn't need a scene. They needed answers.
Chin's hands shook as he tried to drink the coffee in front of him, both hands wrapped around the styrene cup. Despite the two-handed grasp, coffee slopped on the table. He looked hung over.
Reese clicked on the tape recorder, giving the customary interview information for himself, Sanger, and Chin.
"Tell us about last night, Jim."
"I got a call about 7:30 p.m. It was a number I didn't recognize. Man's voice. He said he was a journalist. Had information about the recent bank attacks. Wanted to talk. I told him to come to the office. Said he couldn't. Proposed we meet in a bar. He gave me an address. I met him about 9. We had a couple of beers. talked, and then I can't remember anything except waking up in the back alley. I had no wallet, no phone. Found my keys so that I could at least get home."
"Any keys missing?" Mark asked.
"Not that I know of."
"Any evidence someone might have tried to make copies?" Reese asked.
"I didn't look." Digging in his jacket pocket, he pulled out his keys and put them on the table.
"We'll have someone take a look to make sure," Reese said.
Reese put them in an evidence bag stating that Sgt Chin had given him his keys and that they would be examined.
"What about your badge Jim?"
Chin patted his pockets, "Shit!"
Reese pulled an evidence bag out of his pocket.
"Commander Reese has presented an evidence bag to Sgt Chin for identification purposes," Mark said.
"This yours, Sergeant?" Reese asked.
Chin nodded.
"I need a verbal identification, Jim."
"It's my shield and identification card."
"Sergeant Chin has identified his shield and ID. Item was found in the left hand of Detective Sergeant Fran Belding at the Hennessey Gallery this morning."
Chin looked crestfallen. He lept up from the table. "Is she alive?"
Reese kept his voice low. "Sit down, Sergeant, before I ask Brown out there to set you down."
Chin sat down. "Is Fran ok?" He asked quietly.
"Right now, she isn't doing so hot. She had the hell beaten out of her," Mark said.
"I want to see her."
"You're in no position to make demands."
"Damnit, boss, she's in the hospital because of me."
"Siddown sergeant. This is your last warning."
"When did you last see Fran, Jimmy?" Mark asked.
"We met a week ago. Normal check-in. She updated me on what was happening but was getting ready to get out of her end and switch to a new agent."
"You know who she is?"
"No, Fran said she'd introduce her to me before she went on her long vacation. Look, I need to see her."
There was a knock at the door.
"Interview is stopped at this time. Come," Reese bellowed.
An officer came in, dropping a form on the desk. " The doc is here."
"Sign the form Sarge. You're going to give us some blood."
Chin scribbled a signature. The door opened again, and a woman came in, rolled up Chin's sleeve, efficiently took the sample, and gave a cursory physical exam."
"About ten, maybe twenty minutes. I'll have results," she said.
"Interview has resumed. Let's go back to what happened last night."
Chin struggled to tell the story. Reese was frustrated and slapped down a picture of Rezko Lenard.
"Is this the guy you met last night?"
Chin picked up the photo. "Not sure." He held the picture closer. "He was wearing a cap and dark glasses. Combed his hair differently. Yeah, he looks like the guy."
He paused, leaning his head into his hands. "Damnit, I got played for a fool by Lenard last night, and Fran paid for it. What the hell did I tell him?"
Another knock at the door. An officer came in, quickly dropped a folder on the table, and left.
Reese thumbed through the file. He showed it to Mark. Then turned to Chin.
"Well, Sergeant, we probably won't ever know what happened last night because not only were you drinking a lot of high-powered alcohol last night, but it was loaded with a dose of sodium amytal. Right now, you're legally buzzed. Probably still have a bit of amytal in you, so you might have a compulsion to tell us the truth because of that. No wonder you still have the shakes. You're hungover, big time."
Reese stopped the tape recorder, got up, and opened the door.
"Murphy, take Jimmy back to his place. Get a forensics team with a bug detector. Pack a bag for the sergeant and take him over to Club Med; he's on vacation until IA clears him. Keep an eye on him. We'll try this again when he's legally sober and has that amytal out of his system."
"Sanger, " Chin pleaded, "when you see Fran, promise me you'll tell her there's no way I'd see her get hurt like that."
Mark nodded. He'd do that much for Jim Chin.
Reese pulled out his cell phone as Sanger and Chin left.
Mark met Ed outside the interview room. His partner had calmed down, but Mark knew Ed wanted a couple of minutes alone with Chin. He felt the same way himself."
"Hospital or office?" Mark asked.
"Hospital. You go back to the office, Mark. Eve and Max probably could use your help,"
"You got it."
Ed's phone rang, "Brown."
He listened for a moment and hung up. He looked shattered.
"Who was that?" Mark asked.
"She's dead." He replied.
"Who? Fran? Can't be true."
"They had to rush her to surgery. Blood clots on the brain. She didn't make it."
Mark looked crestfallen.
Brown nodded, "I'm going to get that son of a bitch. Rezko Lenard's mine."